A Butler's Touch
by Arlene
Summary: A matter requires Alfred's delicate touch


A Butler's Touch

Disclaimer: DC owns the characters. Not mine, never will be. No money is being made from this piece of fiction.

A Butler's Touch

By Arlene

After seeing the latest Robin off to bed, Alfred quickly put on his coat, grabbed his keys and left Brentwood. Luckily, he had already discussed the difficulties of serving two masters with the Dean, which had earned him permission to leave and enter the grounds freely at any time.

When the young hero had returned from Gotham unscathed, the old gentleman patiently listened to the evening's adventures, even though he didn't want to know. Alfred never wanted to hear about the gruesome details of the events; he just wanted his boys to return safely. 

However, one particular description had captured his undivided attention: A mugger had slain a small family while they were apparently on their way home from a night at the movies. Ticket stubs found on the bodies helped narrow the time of their deaths to shortly after the show. Ironically, the movie was a remake of "Zorro."

According to Timothy, Batman had heard of the incident hours after the bodies had been found and reported. Although there had been absolutely no way Batman could've prevented it, there was no doubt in Alfred's mind that Bruce blamed himself for the deaths. When they had located the mugger, Robin had to stop Batman from beating the killer to a bloody pulp, even though he deserved it. 

Once out of the city limits, Alfred literally put the pedal to the metal, daring any police officers to stop him, and woe be unto the fool that did. Alfred was not in a gentlemanly mood at the moment. Throughout the drive to the Manor, he chanted to himself, "Let him be all right. Let him be all right." As he neared the hidden entrance to the Batcave, he expertly navigated the winding road without braking.

He knew Bruce's habits well. After a regular patrol, Bruce would update his files before going to bed. After a particularly busy evening, he would go straight to bed. However, after a mentally distressing outing, such as this one, he'd meditate, workout, anything to make the memories of it less painful before going to sleep. Although Bruce had an extraordinary mind, he was cursed with a memory that would never allow him to let go of the past.

Alfred took a quick inventory of the medical supplies. None had been used. He said a quick prayer of thanksgiving for that small favor. He then steeled himself to tend to the wound that couldn't be healed with stitches or band-aids.

Because of the time it took to get from Brentwood to the Manor, Alfred was sure Bruce would be in bed by now. He silently made his way to the upper level, then to the master bedroom, praying that he would be in time. He quietly opened the door, careful not to disturb the sleeping figure on the bed. He quickly examined the scene before him, relieved to still see the relatively orderly nature of the bedclothes. All was well thus far. He sat in the chair closest to the bed and waited. The sound of the steady, deep breaths allowed Alfred to calm and prepare himself for what he knew would happen. 

Not for the first time, he thought of the playful little boy that used to inhabit this home, for it was a home long, long ago. A lifetime ago. A child's giggle used to precede water balloons that fell from the second story. Alfred smiled at the accuracy of the drops. He himself had been beaned twice before the young scamp was caught. A small figure in a cape used to run around the halls, proclaiming himself as the Gray Ghost, sworn to fight evil, even though he tried more often that not to steal freshly baked cookies. The home that was full of laughter, love and mischief died That Night and became a cold, dark Manor. Years, too many of them, passed before the old Manor once again became a home. Thank God for young Richard.

A low moan startled Alfred from his reverie. It was starting. In the faint moonlight that came through the slits in the drapes, he could see Bruce's face transform itself from that of a peaceful sleeper to one full of fear and pain. Then the whimpering began. 

Alfred anticipated the nightmare. Expected it, yes. Accustomed to it, no. One never got used to watching loved ones suffer. Although it tore Alfred up to just sit and watch, he knew from experience that he could give comfort only when the most intense part of the dream had passed. Deep asleep, Bruce wouldn't be able to differentiate his voice from those in his nightmare. Also, he was no longer a small boy too weak to break out of a man's grip; he was a grown man, powerful enough to break bones. Alfred had learned the hard way after one such episode had earned him a black eye. Makeup had covered the evidence, but he had learned to keep his distance from then on.

Then the kicking and thrashing began. The older man still kept his peace. The part that affected Alfred the most, though, was the talking, the pleading, the crying and the screaming. When it occurred, Alfred had to grip the chair's arms to keep himself from to going to the bed. 'Steady on, old man,' he told himself, 'you'll do no one any good if you've been hurt, least of all yourself.'

Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, the movement in the bed lessened and the whimpers returned. Bruce was clutching the pillow close to his body, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Now was the time to move.

Alfred sat down on the bedside and held the still weakly struggling man in his arms. He softly began his litany. "Sh, you're safe, Bruce. Alfred is here. You're safe. No one will hurt you. I love you, my boy." Bruce calmed down and released the pillow, turning instead to hold the only one who could give him comfort. Ignoring the tears on his own face, Alfred stroked his head and back, not caring that the body he held was damp with sweat. "It's all right now. You're safe, Bruce." He continued the crooning and stroking until he was sure Bruce was sleeping normally. 

Satisfied that Bruce would be fine, he gently untangled himself from the arms that surrounded him. Missing the familiar weight and feel of Alfred's body, Bruce frowned and moaned in his sleep. Even subconsciously, he could tell that something was missing.

Alfred turned for one last look and spotted the disappointed expression. He bent down and reached out to cup one of Bruce's stubble-roughened cheeks in his care-worn hand. Bruce automatically leaned into the touch, his frown disappearing.

"Sleep well, Bruce," he whispered tenderly, "and remember to clean under your nails." Bruce sighed and smiled slightly at the familiar reprimand. All was well once again. Slipping out of the bedroom, Alfred went back to the lowest level to return to his other charge. 

End


End file.
